Promise Kept
by Elerrina Amanya
Summary: As a child, Legolas encounters a singer whose words will change his life.


Promise Kept 

  


A soft light, faintly tinted with green as though filtered through leaves, shone through the opening chiselled in the living stone of the vaulted ceiling. It illuminated the delicate filigree work of various chairs and tables, here glinting on a silver ornament and there causing the silken rose hangings to glow. The only figure in the magnificent room, however, was that of a small boy who had seen no more than five summers, clad in green and with eyes like stars.   


His father was out with a number of his courtiers, hunting the enchanted deer that roamed the forest. Legolas, the plaits which had caused his mother so much trouble to weave flying behind him, was running with a heart as light as his feet through the carven halls and archways of the Elven-king's palace, waiting for the moment the clear sound of horns would announce the imminent return of the hunters, and the opening of the gate.   


All his concentration was centred therefore on his considerable powers of hearing, so it was not surprising that he heard, as though from far away, the faint sound of singing. He was attracted by it, he could not have said why. All Elves were beautiful singers, but there was something compelling about this voice. As he approached the source of the melody, young though he was he realised how deep the sadness of the singer was. Each of the Eldar of Middle-earth contained within them a certain measure of sorrow, a longing for something unattainable-despite his youth even Legolas would feel at times a strange ache in his heart as he listened to the wind rush through the leaves- but this person's grief was much more personal, immediate.   


Legolas drew near to the chamber from which the sound issued. He looked around the doorway, into a room beautifully furnished in a style different to that of the Silvan Elves. Upon one wall was a painting, exquisitely executed. The child Legolas as yet knew little of the past, but he later learned that this work depicted the marching from Greenwood of the Silvan Elves of Oropher, his grandfather, to join the Last Alliance.   


The singer, a grey-clad woman, stood gazing on the picture, her fingers caressing the face of one of the Elves. Legolas stood for a moment, staring and absorbing her words.   
"Naur vi eryn, lanc i dalaf. Mathach vi qeven? Nostach vi wilith? Mab le i nagor, Bad gurth vi ngalaf firiel. Dorthach vi mar han? Dagrathach go hain?"   
"The woods are burning, the ground lies bare. Do you feel it in the earth? Can you smell it in the air? The war is upon you, Death moves in the fading light. Are you part of this world? Will you join their fight?"   
The tune was haunting, evocative, pleading.   


Suddenly, she turned. She was without a doubt one of the loveliest persons Legolas had ever seen. Despite her sorrow, a light was on her face that was not in general seen among the Elves of Greenwood. She smiled sadly, and spoke his name softly, "Legolas Thranduilion," in a voice like to silver bells, yet richer. Legolas bowed before her beauty and the nobility that he somehow sensed intuitively was in her; then, scarce knowing what he did, he turned and crept back to his mother's side. It was she who told him the story of the singer in the chamber.   


Her name was Eärine, he discovered. Long before, she had been born in Valinor; one of the Lindar, the Singers of Alqualondë. At the time of the Rebellion of the Noldor, she had returned to Middle-earth, seeking adventure, and also for love of the children of Finarfin, her kin.   
To Doriath she had come in the end, and there met one of the Laiquendi, a survivor from the massacre of the Green-Elves. Their love had been great, and at the ending of the First Age they had passed East, and come to Greenwood, accompanying others of the Sindarin princes.   
After years of peace and the following threat of battle, Eärine's husband had departed to the war against Sauron, and had not returned to her. He was one of the many whose bodies now lay on the Dagorlad.   
For several years more she dwelt in Greenwood, bound to her grief, but slowly she faded, until she passed away altogether.   


The song, his mother told Legolas, was one the Wood-Elves had sung as they left their beloved forest forever. Listening to her words, he could almost imagine it being sung by many voices, a call to battle instead of a song of mourning.   


At the close of her tale he slipped from her side without a word and silently returned to his post, waiting for his father, but his heart was clearly not in the task as it had been previously. Legolas did not see his mother's face as he left her, nor did he glimpse the expression in her eyes-sadness and regret that her little child had become acquainted with the pain of this world so young was mingled with a fervent, vain hope that he would never come to know it more intimately.   


As he wandered back through the halls, Legolas thought long and hard, his thoughts-large and deep for such a small person-working furiously. The history his mother had related had been a lot to comprehend for a person whose only worries have been whether it would rain today, and the concepts of evil and war had, until now, been only vague shadows. He still knew very little about them, but it was enough. The tiny face was determined; the soft, baby mouth was set with resolution. he did not know what his mother had meant by "dead", for such a thing had never come into his ken before, but he realised it entailed parting and grief. No Elven-woman would ever sing so sadly again, no child would ever lose a father to strife-not if Legolas could in any way prevent it. The words of Eärine's song came back to him. 

"Yes," he thought firmly. "I will join their fight." It was a war he did not understand, against a foe he did not know, but a promise had been made.   


It was a quiet, thoughtful Elf-child who stood to watch the arrival of the hunters at the entrance to the palace. Thranduil looked about him, missing the vibrant, laughing boy who usually greeted his return. It took a moment for the king's eyes to search out his son, before they fell on the diminutive form half concealed by a lampstand, his soft cheek pressed against the cool stone of the wall.   


"Legolas nîn!" he cried out, extending his arms. He then stepped forward, concerned at the slow approach of the child. "Are you well?" he asked Legolas, lifting him and holding him against his chest, within the folds of the grey Elven-cloak.   


For answer he received only a long, solemn gaze from a pair of eyes that held in them something that only that morning they had not-a depth and knowledge they should not have possessed. Something was missing, also, for although still innocent and trusting, some of the naïveté of childhood had gone. Distressed by this change, Thranduil lifted his own eyes from the contemplation of his son, and found that his lady had come to his side without his knowledge. In answer to his unspoken question she only gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, indicating that he should leave the matter be for the present. Having faith in her judgement he questioned neither of them further.   


Late that night, however, his wife explained to Thranduil the events of the day, and how she had had to attempt to explain such weighty matters as Dark Lords and death to such a young mind as Legolas'. He did not rebuke her for having done so, only shared her regret that he had encountered tragedy so young. 

Together they walked to the chamber where their son lay, resting from the exertions of the day. His hair was tangled on the cushion, his face was flushed and in his small, soft hand was clutched a squashed shape, barely recognisable as the much-loved and battered form of a horse, sewn before his birth by his mother. 

She bit her lip now as she gazed at him, never having seen him overcome by tiredness in this way. "Does he still hug Mithadan?" Thranduil queried softly. "Not very often, now..." Remorse filled her features and turning suddenly to her husband she whispered passionately, "I was wrong, wrong to tell him...wrong to show him! How-why did I do it? What persuaded me to do such a thing to my own child?" Tears trickled down her pale face, but Thranduil clasped her hand comfortingly. "He is special-you know that. Perhaps it is better this way, that he should learn now... we do not know what purpose Ilúvatar has for him." She nodded, but her eyes still showed the anger she felt towards herself as each bent to place a kiss upon his forehead, then turned and left the room.   


In the following days, Legolas seemed little changed from his former spirited self, save that his eyes retained the depth they had gained, and at times he would appear more serious than had been his wont. This, however, might have been attributed to the passing of time, that save for growth in beauty, wisdom and knowledge, affects the Elves so little.   


Thirty centuries later, Eärine was no more than a forgotten name, but as he stood before the Morannon and watched its collapse and the rule of Sauron with it, as he witnessed the birth of a new Age, as he saw the Eagles soar, the words of her song returned to Legolas, and in his heart he knew the contentment of a promise kept. 


End file.
